Like Bobby Jean
by 1montydeeks
Summary: Every January 8th, since 17 years. A melancholic song. A boy, a girl, and their lost love. A poignant memory. Martin Deeks nostalgically tells the story of a goodbye.


Like "Bobby Jean"

* _Well, I came by your_ _house the other day,_ _your mother said, you went away…_

Do you remember, Anne? You always said you would leave, just like her.

In fact, one morning like any other... I had stopped by, calling you to go to the beach.

Then, I saw your father hesitate, shaking his head no. He was handsome, just like you, and sad: for himself, for me.

You had told me the evening before, and I didn't want to believe it.

You were self-reliant, you belonged to nobody. You had turned eighteen a couple of weeks before, and you were so excited: you craved leaving for Australia, where you could tame the waves and taste freedom.

I still remember your father's caress, and his voice telling me that you were gone.

I stepped on the beach with my hands in my pockets, and deep down I knew that day would come. I had prepared myself for it, and I was proud of you. I'd never try to stop you: I was absolutely confident that you were right.

The whole time we had been together I knew it would happen and that you were aware of it; silent and discreet, you wouldn't talk about it.

That night, before taking you back home, we had a lot of sex in the warmth of the hut your father owned on the beach; we enjoyed ourselves and laughed like mad.

I would've paid a very high price to be with you, and I accepted.

We had known each other for three years, and I loved you.

Our great, young love in our eighteens is the fondest memory I have.

* * *

* _Now we went walking in the rain talking about the pain…_

 _Nohow gonna ever understand me, the way you did…_

When I met you, you took care of me; you wrapped me up in your warmth, you were always kind. You felt fond of me, and you liked me; you would tell me I was like a magnet to you.

Our first approaches had been goofy, full of awkwardness and hilarity; then eventually, we ended up kissing with quivering lips, our breaths ragged. That afternoon, up in the treehouse, with your hands on my belt, you consumed my innocence and I consumed yours. It was beautiful, Annie.

We had told and listened to each other's secrets; It felt so good to be together, doing the things we both liked.

You knew where to find me in my darkest days, and with your freckled smile you said the dumbest thing that came to your mind, making me laugh and encouraging me to hold on.

We made funny faces as we were silently fishing in the hot afternoons; you enjoyed putting ribbons in my hair, and you had hold on to me, soaked, the night when that thunderstorm struck.

Nobody has ever understood me like you had... and that has tenderly, melancholically marked my life, my dear friend.

Whenever I hear this song I can't help but thinking about you and the agreement we've made at the sunrise of a friday from many years ago.

"Let's think about it, Martin, shall we?" you asked me. "I think of you and you think of me... during this song... always, in any place, even if we are separated... just for one moment, for us... would you like it, Blondie?" you inquired again sweetly and lovely, as you buried your face in my nape, in the warmth of the sunrise. At the top of the stairs of your porch, you were leaning against my back, sitting behind me, and you gave me butterfly kisses on my bare shoulders.

"Alright" I responded, "it's very romantic... always."

* * *

* _Maybe you'll be out there…_

 _I'm thinking of you…_

 _I miss you, baby…_

Every 8th of January, since seventeen years, I receive you telegram. I happily open and read it knowing that not even once, for all these years, you've written the same thing over again. You're concise as always: "Happy birthday, Blondie. I'm fine. I Iove you. Annie."

I smile, shoving the telegram on my palms. I love you, too; you are my youth, and the absolute, wonderful illusion of the certitude that love could last forever.

Like every year I'm going up to your father to wave your telgram under his nose, thrilled to make him hear from you. I repay his affectionate courtesy of making me see, in July, your wishes for his birthday.

It's useless to look at the postmark to find out where you are: you will have already moved. Always in a rush, always frenetic, you never get tired and you never settle down in one place.

I long for you, and I wish I could meet you again after all these years. I wish I could find you around my corner of my house, where we always met.

I'm goddamn lucky, today: I have your telegram and the radio is singing our song, and this day, as always, I'm intensely thinking of you.

Even though time passes, when I receive your wishes it seems you're here next to me, and I turn into a boy again.

I miss you, Annie, I wanna see you to tell you about my life and know everything about yours. I wanna tell you about the man I've become and discover what kind of woman you've become.

In this messed up world, I wish I could find a place just for us and take you there to make love.

All of this will be gone by tomorrow: I will resume facing my daily chaos and you'll go back in my memories... But for one moment lasting as much as this song you're here with me, on the beach, playing with my dog which you've never known.

* * *

 _For goodness sake, Martin._

 _Thanks to Mr. Bruce Springsteen, I love your perfect song._

 _Heartfelt thanks to PoemDestoyer25 for translating and making this release possible._

 _This fic has won in the Best Song cathegory at the "Oscar EFP" 2016._

 _Monty_

 _*_ _"Bobby Jean" B. Springsteen, Born in the USA, 1984_

 _Disclaimer: I don't own nor I haven't created Martin A. "Marty" Deeks, or "Bobby Jean" and its lyrics._


End file.
